The Burial Fire
by justrandomspnstuff
Summary: Would Sam forgive him? Would Cas? Still, Dean's foot inched closer to the edge. (Destiel)


Dean pushed his shovel deeper, burying the silver metal with the crumble of soot beneath his boot. He'd stepped on the flat of it, helping slice through the ground with his weight and he added to the mound of earth beside him, breaths labored as he dug.

He glanced at the headstone in front of him thinking he'd done this too many times, wondering if he could count heaping shovels in proxy of years when measuring his life span. And he acknowledged how small his knoll would look next to Cas's; Dean felt sure that not a mountain on earth could measure the depth of the angel, and it only served to make Dean feel more disconnected from him.

But he pushed the thought aside as he unearthed another coffin, jumping down to open it up with a creaking sound. And he looked down at the body, remembering his own mortality, trying to quiet the piece of him that craved a place where temporary creations and infinite ones could break the rules. A place where he could be like Cas. No, not like him. Worthy of him.

Dean climbed out and pulled the lighter from his pocket, rubbing his calloused thumb across the cog to spark a fire. And his hand was shaking as he tossed it in. And his mind thought of all the times he'd wasted lighter after lighter inside the consuming burn of destructive cremation. It would probably be better if he just used a match, anyway. But there was something final about wasting a creation that wasn't meant to be used and tossed aside. Something that reminded him that fire was the great leveling plane, breaking them all down to ash, lacking discrimination.

And the heat curled up towards his face as he teetered closer, toes hanging over the edge of the hole he'd dug, looking inside. He imagined he could see the end of it, the depth. But it was all a lie, because it was infinite, reflected in in the black of his eyes, absorbing him. He had never told anyone this, but sometimes, when he burned a body alone, when he unchained his mind, even briefly, he found it provocative —to lean just the tiniest bit forward and tempt gravity to take him. Really, there was nothing unnatural about the inclination when he thought about it. And it suddenly raised a deeply personal question in his mind about what was really going on when he gripped life so tightly, like it was precious and desirable. . . for everyone else.

Why was it so wrong to claim the ending that every human was entitled to? He'd been there already, hadn't he: heaven and hell. Was it really so morally corrupt to give up on his experience here? His toes wriggled inside his shoes, peeking over the empty space below him, his boot tips starting to warp in the warmth.

Sam, he thought. Would he forgive me? Would Cas?

And it served to sober his escape, but only just, because he still wanted to run away. To jump into the void that burned below his feet and see where it would lead. Maybe hell? Again. Maybe hell was all he'd ever know, anyway.

But that wasn't really what called to him. There was a piece of him that cast aside rationality in favor of fantasy. A surely misguided persuasion that it wouldn't be death, but a transformation. He would sprout wings to wrap around them both—he and his angel. He would be clean. Something superior.

But the fire was dying down, and he was running out of time to play his game of Russian roulette with his mind, discovering whether any of his intentions were ever really made up of motion. Up until now, they had all been wisps of an idea. The last step too hard to execute, even in its simplicity. But it only took once. And it could be tonight. Right now.

"Make me something better," he whispered, closing his eyes. That made people braver, didn't it? If they couldn't see their demon. He could pretend he was stepping off a train, or into a warm pool of water. His foot twitched.

It could be tonight.

And he became acutely aware of the heat, calling to him, asking to swallow him up. Telling him he could be a part of the earth. A mound of Ash. Transformed.

And he picked up one foot. It hovered above the flame. He closed his eyes tighter.

"Dean," Cas suddenly said behind him. How long had he been there?

And the angel's hand was on his scar, claiming his skin, holding him in place. And, gently, he pulled Dean away from the edge. He turned the hunter toward him.

With effort, Dean opened his eyes and his head dropped a little in shame. "I wanted to have wings," he whispered to his chest, knowing he wasn't making sense, but saying it anyway, the words meaningless but raw. And it was perhaps the most truthful he'd been in a long time.

Cas looked down into the fire, then back up at Dean. They stood there for awhile, letting the light dwindle.

And, slowly, Cas started to take off his trench coat. It wasn't cold, and Dean had his own jacket. But Cas wrapped the tan material around Dean's shoulders anyway, pulling the lapels together to make it tighter around him like a blanket.

Dean took a deep breath, then finally, braved a look at Cas. The angel's stare wasn't harsh or even angry. But full of non-judgment and acceptance. And that was the image Dean saw before the embers in the grave died out fully, leaving them in darkness.

He could feel Cas next to him, though. Could feel his coat around him. Could feel the warmth of his breath when he spoke. It wasn't loud or even powerful, but quiet, and achingly authentic when Cas leaned in to Dean's ear:

"You can have my wings."


End file.
